Courtesan

January 19, 2010

[Photo courtesy of Rachel.]

I don’t have a fortune to pass down. I don’t have my own kingdom and I don’t have a husband. And Adam is definitely not a king; although he does act like a God on occasion. And he likes it on top; a king in his castle on a hill looking down at the peasant.

I will never give birth to his heir, I think to myself. 

Honestly, it’s not even about him.  After every orgasm I know I’m not pregnant. Adam wouldn’t allow it, his safety measures may be limited but he leads his men with the discipline of a single Spartan warrior. Even if one of his men dared disobey his orders and soldiered on into me, my body was unlikely to notice.

Before every orgasm the ritual is the same. Every night, he removes his Hugo Boss suit so carefully that you would think he was undressing a baby. He drapes it over a chair mechanically–shirt first, trousers last. Then with no warning he throws me savagely onto our bed of trash and tosses all my clothes carelessly onto the floor. While having me, his eyes dart back and forth to his suit.  Maybe it is creases–with their soundless cries–that keep him up at night.

After every orgasm the ritual is the same too.  I’m not pregnant and this invasion was a war of convenience; not necessity.  He walks naked to my bathroom not once looking back from where he came. He jumps into the shower and scrubs himself coarse. He always brushes his teeth. He cautiously places his suit back onto his body. It’s a perfect fit and the stitching is impeccable.  And when he leaves I don’t know who I know better; him or that damn suit.

He would balk if he knew that the heir I want is not about him.  It’s about me.

Lovers leave and kings are not faithful to one mistress; even the one they call their wife. And I want assurances. I want to know that on my death bed there will be a soul that will miss me. A soul that could confirm I had indeed existed.  Without him, I will be a red lipstick imprint smudged on the rim of a cracked tea cup. This will be no different to what I am now. To him, I am just a figure lying motionless on spent sheets; a stranger in a photograph. To me, I am a shadow lost in another shadow. My structure is unclear and my lines have no definition.

And still I let him fuck me.

I don’t blame him. I don’t have the right to stand in a courtroom and point a finger and declare,

‘Your Honour, he is the man. He is the man that can’t love me.’  Let the record show that the defendant is pointing to the accused.

Of course men are innocent until proven guilty. And there are always mitigating circumstances to crimes. Did you know that if there is evidence that a woman dressed or behaved provocatively her rapist could be set free?  Would Adam be acquitted because on our first date I acted aloof and uninterested? There are all sorts of justifications, intentions, motivations that juries consider before issuing their verdict.

Would my heir condemn me for my selfish intention? Would he hate me when he discovered the reason for his conception? Would I be tried and hanged for my act of self preservation? Would he convict me to a life of loneliness when he found another? When he comes out of me, cheeks flushed red, a pulsating muffled scream, is he punishing me?

Probably. He is my ruler; the man that contains me.

And I am his reminder that life is easy when you’re a king.

It’s easy except when it come to love. Love is the place where royals and peasants, where landowners and serfs, were princesses and frogs become faceless. Love doesn’t care for titles. But His Highness can still have whoever he wants.

This reminds me.  I met a gypsy the other day. She could have been a gypsy. She may have been homeless. She was definitely a drinker. She told me the story of the Princess of Corona. She told me that this story had been passed down from gypsy to gypsy on dirty sidewalks inside dark alleys for centuries.  Just go with it, I thought , and politely nodded.

The story went something like this. Apparently, there was the Princess of Corona who stood to inherit a large ancestral land. She was pretty and young as all princesses are in stories. The Princess of Corona was pursued by a man for exactly seven days and seven nights before she gave herself to him. On the first day–after he had left her quarters–she tried to unscrew a bottle of shampoo to wash her hair. She couldn’t and according to gypsy folklore she said,

‘I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough.’

On the second day—after another rough and sweaty encounter with this man—she needed to wash her hair again.  But the cap still wouldn’t budge. On this night she said,

‘I can’t do it but I think there must be something wrong with this bottle.’

On the third day, on her third failed attempt, she whispered,

‘This is the reason a princess needs a prince’. (To unscrew apparently.)

It was at this very moment that her knight returned. No one really knows the reason.  He knocked on her bedroom door and when she opened and saw his face she couldn’t maks her excitement.

‘This must be love.’ she cried.

‘He was never seen or heard of again.’ the gypsy had informed me in an underground whisper.

Adam would be appalled to know that I speak to gypsies. He would be appalled to know that every day when he storms inside me I am thinking I love you. He would be appalled if he knew that each time his fingers curl around my skull and he pulls my hair I am thinking I love you.

He would be appalled to know that right now as I hear him leave—the soft shhh of his creaseless suit tracing my wall with its straight edges, I am thinking of heirs. Don’t look up. I’m not an idiot like Princess Corona.

I confess my silent sins to empty rooms.

I love you.

———-

Words by Hope

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18 Responses to “Courtesan”

  1. I thought the fact that the cup with her lipstick on it was cracked was my favourite part. Then I read this:

    “This reminds me. I met a gypsy the other day. She could have been a gypsy. She may have been homeless. She was definitely a drinker.”

  2. […] Today you will find me over at Just a Moment. […]

  3. Ben said

    Totes – the tea cup line? Genius.

  4. Ashley said

    “I want to know that on my death bed there will be a soul that will miss me. A soul that could confirm I had indeed exist. Without him, I will be a red lipstick imprint smudged on the rim of a cracked tea cup.”

    Don’t we all….

    Absolutely gorgeous.

  5. Mandy said

    Beautiful writing. I was absolutely enthralled.

  6. Bridget said

    “I confess my silent sins to empty rooms.

    I love you.”

    Gorgeous.

  7. Emily Jane said

    Absolutely beautiful. Breathtaking 🙂

  8. Dani said

    Beautiful writing!

  9. zatilaqmar said

    simply beautiful.the best one so far 🙂

  10. tia said

    uhm this is amazing. seriously.

  11. […] Hope wrote on Tuesday. […]

  12. Lady this is looooooovely.

  13. Jasmine said

    Amazing writing and the teacup line was my favorite!

  14. Neha said

    I stole your lines – attributed them to you of course, but I couldn’t help it, they just hit home.

    http://lessonsinbeingme.blogspot.com/2011/04/he-is-man-that-cant-love-me.html

  15. BabyBluel said

    Чего он в жизни еще не видел , кроме старости ?

    И зачем ему знакомства с молодыми девушками ?

    И вообще, о че м он думает в этом возрасте ?

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